Desperate Measures
by Red Lioness
Summary: Charles has a secret to keep on board the Dethsub


Charles Offdensen had many secrets. It stood to reason; he was the man with all the answers so it was no surprise that there were some he didn't want other people to have. Charles had many secrets because he knew many things.

But sometimes secrets slipped out.

For instance, rumor spread amongst the Gears that Lord Offdensen had ordered a very large crate locked into a walk-in closet just off of his personal quarters. Three deadbolts kept everyone out of the storage space and even the cleaning crew wasn't allowed in. Before the Dethsub made its deep dive, there was plenty of downtime and Klokateers passed it trying to guess what the Bossman was hiding.

News of the secret made it through the Gears to the contractors like Jean-Pierre, Knubbler, and Abigail. Eventually it even reached Dethklok. And there it stopped, in a sense, because they decided to go find out what it was.

The closet door was actually made of reinforced steel, which they found out when Nathan hit it very hard with a sledgehammer.

"What do yeh think he's hidin'?" Pickles asked. "I mean, nuclear launch codes or shit like that could fit in a desk drawer."

"It's gotta be somethin' good; who the hell puts three locks on a fuckin' closet?" Nathan asked, taking another swing.

"Oh, buts whats if it ams somethings he doesn'ts wants people to finds?" Toki asked.

"Of course it'sh something he doeshn't want people to shee!" Murderface snapped. "Why elshe would he hide it?"

The door finally burst open, bits of lock pinging along the floor. Nathan reached around the ruined doorjamb and snapped on the light, revealing Charles Offdensen's big secret.

"That motherdouchebag!" Pickles wailed. "He smuggled a chick on board!"

A pretty young woman sat in a chair in the back of the room. She wore a black suit jacket with an ivory camisole underneath, a black skirt that was a little _too_ short, and sensible pumps. Her blonde hair was swept up in a French twist. Black catseye glasses were perched on her nose.

"Ahhhh, man! He even kept her locked in a closet like a fuckin' animal so no one would see!" Nathan roared. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Is not really a closet," Toki observed, skating inside.

While the room may have been a walk-in closet to begin with, but it had been transformed into a small bedroom.

"Dood. DOOD! If he keeps her locked up, den she's probably just another skank!" Pickles yelped. "Think she'd fuck us?"

"The shtuck up bitch hashn't even shaid 'hello'!" Murderface observed. "You probably think Charlesh'll shet you up for life, huh?"

The woman said nothing, only kept staring straight ahead with her hands folded demurely in her lap.

"Way to win her over, Murderface!" Nathan spat. "You don't call women bitches to their faces!"

"Lady, you is okay?" Toki asked, skating up to her.

The stranger didn't even look up at the young Norwegian. It was pretty damn hard to ignore six feet three inches of beefcake wearing a pink belly shirt and jockey shorts on roller skates.

"Is she high?" Nathan asked.

Toki shook her shoulder gently. When this got no response, he patted her hand. Toki frowned, picked up her hand and felt it, then prodded her cheek with one finger.

"Toki, what –" Pickles began.

"She ams not real," Toki announced. "She . . . she . . ams . . uh . . dolly."

"Dolly? What do you mean by 'dolly'?" Nathan asked, creeping towards the 'woman'.

"Jumpin' Jeshush on a pogo shtick," Murderface said with deadly calm. "It'sh a fuckin' shex doll."

There was a pregnant silence, which gave birth to lots of little silences, each more awkward and embarrassed than the last. It was finally broken when Skwisgaar let out a sharp bark of laughter, which quickly petered off into brain-break awkwardness.

"That – that can't be it," Nathan finally offered. "There's no fucking way Charles comes in here at night and humps a piece of fucking rubber."

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Murderface asked. "Ash weird ash he ish, he probably didn't even buy it for thish trip; thish is probably just hish favorite one or shomething."

The bass player pulled out the doll's camisole and peered critically down its shirt.

"You know, I've never sheen one of theshe Real Dollsh up closhe. It'sh . . . it'sh pretty good craftsmanship."

Toki prodded at her mouth, which opened with ease.

"She even gots a tongue," he announced.

"Toki! Charles' dick has been in there!" Nathan cried, pulling his rhythm guitarist away. "Go wash your hands!"

"You think he'd let us borrow it?" Pickles asked in a tiny voice.

Nathan Explosion couldn't even muster words. He merely stared at the drummer with a look of abject horror on his face.

"I'd wash it out real good first!" the ginger protested.

"Thish is a nische one," Murderface said. "Theshe things cosht like, eight grand."

"How you knows dats?" Skwsigaar asked.

"Fuck you, that'sh how."

The lanky Swede didn't press the issue. Instead, he knelt down and looked up the doll's skirt.

"Stockings and garters belt," he reported. "Why woulds yous dress ups a fuck doll?"

"Dress it up? Why would you give it glasses?" Nathan opined. "That's fuckin' weird."

"Fuck you guys, it's classy!" Pickles snapped. "And she's cute in her glasses!"

"Suddenly it's a 'she' again?" Nathan posed. "Oh, my god, you're going to fuck it, aren't you?"

"What are you boys doing in here?"

Charles stood in the ruined doorway. His normally stoic expression held just a hint of anger.

All five men attempted to assume innocent positions, which was very difficult to do with your hand up a sex doll's skirt or holding a sledgehammer. Toki lost his balance and toppled over, grabbing Skwisgaar to try to stay upright. Skwisgaar crashed into the chair, dumping the doll onto the ground.

"You're going to break Portia!" Offdensen yelped.

"Its name is 'Portia'?" Nathan asked, his face screwed up in distaste.

Dethklok's manager stared at his band with a mixture of rage and shame. He held his position as if desperately thinking for an explanation, then gave up.

"Get out," he snapped.

Charles strode forward and gathered Portia up, cradling her under the knees and shoulders just like a real person. He placed her carefully back on her chair, tugging her clothing back into order.

"Gggeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuh," Nathan declared.

"Get out!" Charles repeated.

There was some shuffling behind him.

"Um . . . how much did that cosht you?" Murderface asked. "Did they have any modelsh with bigger titsh?"

"William . . ."

"Okay, okay, jusht like, email it to me later," the bass player said, backing off.

Charles tried to put Portia's glasses on, only to discover one of the lenses had cracked. The manager sighed.

"Portia's a nice name," Pickles offered. "It's . . . uh . . . classy! Um . . . do you think I could _borrow_—"

"GET OUT!"

"I'd wash 'er out real good afterwards!"

The drummer didn't wait for an answer; the look on Charles' face was enough. Pickles fled out into the hallway with the rest of the band and soon the corridor rang with the thunder of heavy feet.

Charles sighed, his face relaxing in to a neutral expression. He focused on the woman-shaped hunk of silicone and steel in front of him.

"Ah . . . thank you for the smoke screen, ah . . . 'Portia'."

Charles Offdensen was a man who had all the answers. One of the answers he had went with the age-old question 'Why is it always in the last place you look?' It went 'Because after you find it, you stop looking.' If you wanted the really deep secrets to stay secret, you kept some sufficiently juicy dirt right at the surface.

The sub would be buzzing with the news that Charles (M.F.) Offdensen kept a sex doll in his closet for _weeks._ Nobody would even think of asking more pertinent questions, like why a submarine for the transportation of five men needed to be larger than three cruise ships or armed like the Red October. No one needed to realize they were translating whale song, either.

"You've done your job splendidly," Charles told the sex doll. "Perhaps the glasses were a bit much, though."

Portia said nothing, only sat awkwardly in her chair, clothing in disarray and hair disheveled. Charles gave her another long look. Two and a half months was a long time with no female companionship.

"Well . . . ah, since I'm going to have the reputation of a twisted pervert anyway . . ."


End file.
